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How do you measure time?
When my son was young, I told him that whenever daffodils appeared in our yard, he would know that his birthday was near.
We took walks with a yellow dump truck that bumped along the sidewalk as we pulled it by a string and stopped to fill its bin with leaves, rocks, and “magnonia” cones that fell, full of seeds, from the trees.
The air grows warm.
White petals unfold as magnolia trees yield blossoms that my daughter and I stop to smell.
We note the arrival of the first firefly.
Thunderstorms cool summer nights.
Days grow shorter. School begins.
I take a walk and remember the bayous of my hometown and the oak trees, draped in Spanish moss. The season’s first acorns—green, not-yet-brown—crunch under my feet.
The September sky grows dark. The moon—waxing gibbous—glows bright as bats swoop low. I thought all the fireflies of summer were gone, but two lightning bugs flash as I pass.
November arrives and we reset our clocks. Can we really save time? Darkness comes earlier now.
We decorate our homes and await the birth of a child.
I recall due dates that turned into birthdays we celebrate with candles.
Close your eyes. Make a wish.
Do you remember the days when you could count your firstborn’s age—or your own—on one hand?
We return to childhood again and again because that’s when the world was new. First step. First snow.
Ebb and flow.
The children carry buckets as we walk across the sand. Tiny crabs run up the shore as waves come closer, then retreat.
Some days, we find shells that are still intact. Some days, we find nothing but fragments.
High tide. Low tide.
In the space in between, all possibilities exist.
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